POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


.  P  O  E  M  S  - 


BY 

RALPH  HODGSON 

It 


UNfV.    OF 

CAUFO 


tfefo  gcrft 
THE  MACMELLAN  COMPANY 

1918 

All  rights  rcterved 


Pf 

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f 

— ? 


COPYRIGHT,  191T, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  March,  1917. 


NcrtoooH  $rtff 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Oo. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 


^53255 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GIPSY  GIRL  .....      1 

A  SONG 3 

TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN        .        .      4 

GHOUL  CARE 6 

EVE       .        . 8 

THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR         .        .        .12 

THE  MYSTERY 23 

STUPIDITY  STREET  .  .  .  .24 
THE  BELLS  OF  HEAVEN  .  .  .25 
THE  JOURNEYMAN  .  .  .  .26 

THE  BULL 28 

PLAYMATES 37 

THE  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  WAY     .        .     39 

THE  BEGGAR 41 

BABYLON       .        .        .        .        .        .42 

THE  MOOR 44 

FEBRUARY 46 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LATE,  LAST  ROOK  .  .  .47 
THE  BIRDCATCHER  .  .  .  .48 
THE  ROYAL  MAILS  .  .  .  .49 
THE  SWALLOW  .  .  .  .  .57 

A  WOOD  SONG 58 

REASON  HAS  MOONS    .        .        .        .59 

THE  BRIDE  ......    60 

AFTER  .......    64 


POEMS 


THE   GIPSY  GIRL 

"COME,  try  your  skill,  kind  gentle- 
men, 

A  penny  for  three  tries  !" 

Some  threw  and  lost,  some  threw 
and  won 

A  ten-a-penny  prize. 

She  was  a  tawny  gipsy  girl, 
A  girl  of  twenty  years, 
I  liked  her  for  the  lumps  of  gold 
That  jingled  from  her  ears ; 

I  liked  the  flaring  yellow  scarf 
Bound  loose  about  her  throat, 
I  liked  her  showy  purple  gown 
And  flashy  velvet  coat. 


2  THE   GIPSY  GIRL 

A  man  came  up,  too  loose  of  tongue, 
And  said  no  good  to  her ; 
She  did  not  blush  as  Saxons  do, 
Or  turn  upon  the  cur ; 

She    fawned    and    whined    "Sweet 

gentleman, 
A  penny  for  three  tries  !" 

-  But  oh,  the  den  of  wild  things  in 
The  darkness  of  her  eyes ! 


A  SONG 

WITH  Love  among  the  haycocks 
We  played  at  hide  and  seek ; 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  counted  - 
We  hid  among  the  hay  — 

Then  he  a  haycock  mounted, 
And  spied  us  where  we  lay ; 

And  O  !  the  merry  laughter 
Across  the  hayfield  after ! 


TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN 

TIME,  you  old  gipsy  man, 

Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 

Just  for  one  day  ? 

All  things  I'll  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best, 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you 
A  great  golden  ring, 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you, 
Little  boys  sing. 
Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may, 
Time,  you  old  gipsy, 
Why  hasten  away  ? 


TIME 

Last  week  in  Babylon, 

Last  night  in  Rome, 

Morning,  and  in  the  crush 

Under  Paul's  dome ; 

Under  Paul's  dial 

You  tighten  your  rein  — 

Only  a  moment, 

And  off  once  again ; 

Off  to  some  city 

Now  blind  in  the  womb, 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay, 

Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day  ? 


GHOUL  CARE 

SOUR  fiend,  go  home  and  tell  the  Pit 
For  once  you  met  your  master,  — 
A  man  who  carried  in  his  soul 
Three  charms  against  disaster, 
The  Devil  and  disaster. 

Away,  away,  and  tell  the  tale 
And  start  your  whelps  a-whining, 
Say  "In  the  greenwood  of  his  soul 
A  lizard's  eye  was  shining, 
A  little  eye  kept  shining." 

Away,  away,  and  salve  your  sores, 
And  set  your  hags  a-groaning, 
Say  "In  the  greenwood  of  his  soul 
A  drowsy  bee  was  droning, 
A  dreamy  bee  was  droning." 


GHOUL   CARE  7 

Prodigious  Bat !     Go  sf  art  the  walls 
Of  Hell  with  horror  ringiti^. 
Say  "In  the  greenwood  of  his  soul 
There  was  a  goldfinch  singing, 
A  pretty  goldfinch  singing." 

And  then  come  back,  come,  if  you 

please, 

A  fiercer  ghoul  and  ghaster, 
With  all  the  glooms  and  smuts  of 

Hell 

Behind  you,  I'm  your  master ! 
You  know  I'm  still  your  master. 


EVE 

EVE,  with  her  basket,  was 
Deep  in  the  bells  and  grass, 
Wading  in  bells  and  grass 
Up  to  her  knees, 
Picking  a  dish  of  sweet1 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Down  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Under  the  trees. 

Mute  as  a  mouse  in  a 
Corner  the  cobra  lay, 
Curled  round  a  bough  of  the 
Cinnamon  tall.  .  .  . 
Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble  proud  heaven  and 
Now  was  the  moment  or 
Never  at  all. 


EVE  9 

"Eva!"     Each  syllable 
Light  as  a  flower  fell, 
"Eva !"  he  whispered  the 
Wondering  maid, 
Soft  as  a  bubble  sung 
Out  of  a  linnet's  lung, 
Soft  and  most  silverly 
"Eva!  "he  said. 

Picture  that  orchard  sprite, 
Eve,  with  her  body  white, 
Supple  and  smooth  to  her 
Slim  finger  tips, 
Wondering,  listening, 
Listening,  wondering, 
Eve  with  a  berry 
Half-way  to  her  lips. 

Oh  had  our  simple  Eve 

Seen  through  the  make-believe ! 

Had  she  but  known  the 

Pretender  he  was ! 

Out  of  the  boughs  he  came, 

Whispering  still  her  name, 


10  EVE 

Tumbling  in  twenty  rings 
Into  the  grass. 

Here  was  the  strangest  pair 
In  the  world  anywhere, 
Eve  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Kneeling,  and  he 
Telling  his  story  low.  .  .  . 
Singing  birds  saw  them  go 
Down  the  dark  path  to 
The  Blasphemous  Tree. 

Oh  what  a  clatter  when 
Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren 
Saw  him  successful  and 
Taking  his  leave ! 
How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve ! 

Picture  her  crying 
Outside  in  the  lane, 
Eve,  with  no  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 


EVE  11 

Haunting  the  gate  of  the 
Orchard  in  vain.  .  .  . 
Picture  the  lewd  delight 
Under  the  hill  to-night  — 
"Eva !"  the  toast  goes  round, 
"Eva!"  again. 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR 

I  CLIMBED  a  hill  as  light  fell  short, 
And  rooks  came  home  in  scramble 

sort, 
And  filled  the  trees  and  flapped  and 

fought 

And  sang  themselves  to  sleep ; 
An  owl  from  nowhere  with  no  sound 
Swung   by   and   soon   was   nowhere 

found, 

I  heard  him  calling  half-way  round, 
Holloing  loud  and  deep ; 
A  pair  of  stars,  faint  pins  of  light, 
Then  many  a  star,  sailed  into  sight, 
And  all  the  stars,  the  flower  of  night, 
Were  round  me  at  a  leap ; 
To  tell  how  still  the  valleys  lay 
I  heard  a  watchdog  miles  away, 

And  bells  of  distant  sheep. 
12 


THE   SONG  OF  HONOUR    13 

I  heard  no  more  of  bird  or  bell, 

The  mastiff  in  a  slumber  fell, 

I  stared  into  the  sky, 

As  wondering  men  have  always  done 

Since  beauty  and  the  stars  were  one 

Though  none  so  hard  as  I. 

It  seemed,  so  still  the  valleys  were, 
As    if    the    whole    world    knelt    at 

prayer, 

Save  me  and  me  alone ; 
So  pure  and  wide  that  silence  was 
I  feared  to  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
And  there  I  stood  like  stone. 


There,   sharp   and   sudden,   there   I 

heard  — 

Ah!  some  wild  lovesick  singing  bird 
Woke  singing  in  the  trees  ? 
The  nightingale  and  babble-wren 
Were    in    the    English    greenwood 

then, 
And  you  heard  one  of  these  ? 


14    THE   SONG  OF  HONOUR 

The  babble-wren  and  nightingale 

Sang  in  the  Abyssinian  vale 

That  season  of  the  year ! 

Yet,  true  enough,  I  heard  them  plain, 

I  heard  them  both  again,  again, 

As  sharp  and  sweet  and  clear 

As  if  the  Abyssinian  tree 

Had  thrust  a  bough  across  the  sea, 

Had  thrust  a  bough  across  to  me 

With  music  for  my  ear ! 

I  heard  them  both,  and  oh !  I  heard 
The  song  of  every  singing  bird 
That  sings  beneath  the  sky, 
And  with  the  song  of  lark  and  wren 
The  song  of  mountains,  moths  and 

men 
And  seas  and  rainbows  vie ! 

I  heard  the  universal  choir, 

The  Sons  of  Light  exalt  their  Sire 

With  universal  song, 

Earth's  lowliest  and  loudest  notes, 

Her  million  times  ten  million  throats 

Exalt  Him  loud  and  long, 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR     15 

And  lips  and  lungs  and  tongues  of 

Grace 

From  every  part  and  every  place 
Within  the  shining  of  His  face, 
The  universal  throng. 

I  heard  the  hymn  of  being  sound 

From  every  well  of  honour  found 

In  human  sense  and  soul : 

The  song  of  poets  when  they  write 

The  testament  of  Beauty  sprite 

Upon  a  flying  scroll, 

The    song    of    painters    when    they 

take 

A  burning  brush  for  Beauty's  sake 
And  limn  her  features  whole  — 

The  song  of  men  divinely  wise 
Who  look  and  see  in  starry  skies 
Not  stars  so  much  as  robins'  eyes, 
And  when  these  pale  away 
Hear  flocks  of  shiny  pleiades 
Among  the  plums  and  apple  trees 
Sing  in  the  summer  day  — 


16    THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR 

The  song  of  all  both  high  and  low 

To  some  blest  vision  true, 

The  song  of  beggars  when  they  throw 

The  crust  of  pity  all  men  owe 

To  hungry  sparrows  in  the  snow, 

Old  beggars  hungry  too  — 

The  song  of  kings  of  kingdoms  when 

They  rise  above  their  fortune  Men, 

And  crown  themselves  anew  — 

The  song  of  courage,  heart  and  will 

And  gladness  in  a  fight, 

Of  men  who  face  a  hopeless  hill 

With  sparking  and  delight, 

The  bells  and  bells  of  song  that  ring 

Round  banners  of  a  cause  or  king 

From  armies  bleeding  white  — 

The  song  of  sailors  every  one 
When  monstrous  tide  and  tempest 

run 

At  ships  like  bulls  at  red, 
When  stately  ships  are  twirled  and 

spun 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR    17 

Like  whipping  tops  and  help  there's 

none 

And  mighty  ships  ten  thousand  ton 
Go  down  like  lumps  of  lead  — 

And  song  of  fighters  stern  as  they 
At    odds    with    fortune    night    and 

day, 
Crammed    up    in    cities    grim    and 

grey 

As  thick  as  bees  in  hives, 
Hosannas  of  a  lowly  throng 
Who  sing  unconscious  of  their  song, 
Whose  lips  are  in  their  lives  — 

And  song  of  some  at  holy  war 
With  spells  and  ghouls  more  dread 

by  far 

Than  deadly  seas  and  cities  are 
Or  hordes  of  quarrelling  kings  - 
The  song  of  fighters  great  and  small, 
The  song  of  pretty  fighters  all 
And  high  heroic  things  — 


18    THE   SONG  OF  HONOUR 

The  song  of  lovers  —  who  knows  how 
Twitched  up  from  place  and  time 
Upon  a  sigh,  a  blush,  a  vow, 
A  curve  or  hue  of  cheek  or  brow, 
Borne  up  and  off  from  here  and  now 
Into  the  void  sublime ! 

And  crying  loves  and  passions  still 
In  every  key  from  soft  to  shrill 
And  numbers  never  done, 
Dog-loyalties  to  faith  and  friend, 
And  loves  like  Ruth's  of  old  no  end, 
And  intermission  none  — 

And  burst  on  burst  for  beauty  and 
For  numbers  not  behind, 
From  men  whose  love  of  motherland 
Is  like  a  dog's  for  one  dear  hand, 
Sole,  selfless,  boundless,  blind  — 
And  song  of  some  with  hearts  beside 
For  men  and  sorrows  far  and  wide, 
Who  watch  the  world  with  pity  and 

pride 
And  warm  to  all  mankind  — 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR    19 

And  endless  joyous  music  rise 
From  children  at  their  play, 
And  endless  soaring  lullabies 
From  happy,  happy  mothers'  eyes, 
And  answering  crows  and  baby-cries, 
How  many  who  shall  say  ! 
And  many  a  song  as  wondrous  well 
With  pangs  and  sweets  intolerable 
From    lonely    hearths    too    grey    to 

tell, 

God  knows  how  utter  grey ! 
And  song  from  many  a  house  of  care 
When  pain  has  forced  a  footing  there 
And  there's  a  Darkness  on  the  stair 
Will  not  be  turned  away  — 

And  song  —  that  song  whose  singers 

come 

With  old  kind  tales  of  pity  from 
The  Great  Compassion's  lips, 
That  make  the  bells  of  Heaven  to 

peal 

Round  pillows  frosty  with  the  feel 
Of  Death's  cold  finger  tips  — 


20    THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR 

The  song  of  men  all  sorts  and  kinds, 
As  many  tempers,  moods  and  minds 
As  leaves  are  on  a  tree, 
As  many  faiths  and  castes  and  creeds, 
As  many  human  bloods  and  breeds 
As  in  the  world  may  be ; 

The  song  of  each  and  all  who  gaze 
On  Beauty  in  her  naked  blaze, 
Or  see  her  dimly  in  a  haze, 
Or  get  her  light  in  fitful  rays 
And  tiniest  needles  even, 
The  song  of  all  not  wholly  dark, 
Not  wholly  sunk  in  stupor  stark 
Too  deep  for  groping  H.eaven  — 

And  alleluias  sweet  and  clear 

And  wild  with  beauty  men  mishear, 

From  choirs  of  song  as  near  and  dear 

To  Paradise  as  they, 

The  everlasting  pipe  and  flute 

Of  wind  and  sea  and  bird  and  brute, 

And  lips  deaf  men  imagine  mute 

In  wood  and  stone  and  clay, 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR    21 

The  music  of  a  lion  strong 

That   shakes   a   hill   a   whole   night 

long, 

A  hill  as  loud  as  he, 
The  twitter  of  a  mouse  among 
Melodious  greenery, 
The  ruby's  and  the  rainbow's  song, 
The  nightingale's  —  all  three, 
The  song  of  life  that  wells  and  flows 
From  every  leopard,  lark  and  rose 
And  everything  that  gleams  or  goes 
Lack-lustre  in  the  sea. 

I  heard  it  all,  each,  every  note 

Of  every  lung  and  tongue  and  throat, 

Ay,  every  rhythm  and  rhyme 

Of  everything  that  lives  and  loves 

And  upward,  ever  upward  moves 

From  lowly  to  sublime  ! 

Earth's  multitudinous  Sons  of  Light, 

I  heard  them  lift  their  lyric  might 

With  each  and  every  chanting  sprite 

That  lit  the  sky  that  wondrous  night 

As  far  as  eye  could  climb ! 


22    THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR 

I  heard  it  all,  I  heard  the  whole 

Harmonious  hymn  of  being  roll 

Up  through  the  chapel  of  my  soul 

And  at  the  altar  die, 

And  in  the  awful  quiet  then 

Myself  I  heard,  Amen,  Amen, 

Amen  I  heard  me  cry ! 

I  heard  it  all  and  then  although 

I  caught  my  flying  senses,  Oh, 

A  dizzy  man  was  I ! 

I  stood  and  stared ;  the  sky  was  lit, 

The  sky  was  stars  all  over  it, 

I  stood,  I  knew  not  why, 

Without  a  wish,  without  a  will, 

I  stood  upon  that  silent  hill 

And  stared  into  the  sky  until 

My  eyes  were  blind  with  stars  and 

still 
I  stared  into  the  sky. 


THE  MYSTERY 

HE  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me, 
Enough    the    rose    was    Heaven    to 
smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 


STUPIDITY  STREET 

I  SAW  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat ; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 


THE  BELLS  OF  HEAVEN 

'TWOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven 
The  wildest  peal  for  years, 
If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 
And  he  and  they  together 
Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 
For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers 
And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 
And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies, 
And  little  hunted  hares. 


THE  JOURNEYMAN 

NOT  baser  than  his  own  homekeeping 

kind 

Whose  journeyman  he  is  — 
Blind  sons  and  breastless  daughters 

of  the  blind 

Whose  darkness  pardons  his,  — 
About  the  world,  while  all  the  world 

approves, 

The  pimp  of  Fashion  steals, 
With  all  the  angels  mourning  their 

dead  loves 
Behind  his  bloody  heels. 

It  may  be  late  when  Nature  cries 

Enough ! 

As  one  day  cry  she  will, 
And  man  may  have  the  wit  to  put 

her  off 
With  shifts  a  season  still ; 

26 


T*,i*     ™ 


THE  JOURNEYMAN       27 

But  man  may  find  the  pinch  im- 
portunate 

And  fall  to  blaming  men  — 

Blind  sires  and  breastless  mothers  of 
his  fate, 

It  may  be  late  and  may  be  very  late, 

Too  late  for  blaming  then. 


THE  BULL 

SEE  an  old  unhappy  bull, 
Sick  in  soul  and  body  both, 
Slouching  in  the  undergrowth 
Of  the  forest  beautiful, 
Banished  from  the  herd  he  led, 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  head. 

Cranes  and  gaudy  parrots  go 

Up  and  down  the  burning  sky ; 

Tree-top  cats  purr  drowsily 

In  the  dim-day  green  below ; 

And    troops    of    monkeys,    nutting, 

some, 
All  disputing,  go  and  come ; 

And  things  abominable  sit 
Picking  offal  buck  or  swine, 

28 


THE   BULL  29 


On  the  mess  and  over  it 
Burnished  flies  and  beetles  shine, 
And  spiders  big  as  bladders  lie 
Under  hemlocks  ten  foot  high ; 

And  a  dotted  serpent  curled 
Round  and  round  and  round  a  tree, 
Yellowing  its  greenery. 
Keeps  a  watch  on  all  the  world, 
All  the  world  and  this  old  bull 
In  the  forest  beautiful. 

Bravely  by  his  fall  he  came : 
One  he  led,  a  bull  of  blood 
Newly  come  to  lustihood, 
Fought  and  put  his  prince  to  shame, 
Snuffed  and  pawed  the  prostrate  head 
Tameless  even  while  it  bled. 

There  they  left  him,  every  one, 
Left  him  there  without  a  lick, 
Left  him  for  the  birds  to  pick, 
Left  him  there  for  carrion, 
Vilely  from  their  bosom  cast 
Wisdom,  worth  and  love  at  last. 


30  THE   BULL 

When  the  lion  left  his  lair 

And  roared  his  beauty  through  the 

hills, 

And  the  vultures  pecked  their  quills 
And  flew  into  the  middle  air. 
Then  this  prince  no  more  to  reign 
Came  to  life  and  lived  again. 

He  snuffed  the  herd  in  far  retreat, 
He  saw  the  blood  upon  the  ground, 
And  snuffed  the  burning  airs  around 
Still  with  beevish  odours  sweet, 
While  the  blood  ran  down  his  head 
And  his  mouth  ran  slaver  red. 

Pity  him,  this  fallen  chief, 
All  his  splendour,  all  his  strength, 
All  his  body's  breadth  and  length 
Dwindled    down    with    shame    and 

grief, 

Half  the  bull  he  was  before, 
Bones  and  leather,  nothing  more. 

See  him  standing  dewlap-deep 
In  the  rushes  at  the  lake, 


Cii,,Ur 


THE  BULL  31 


Surly,  stupid,  half  asleep, 
Waiting  for  his  heart  to  break 
And  the  birds  to  join  the  flies 
Feasting  at  his  bloodshot  eyes ; 

/  Standing  with  his  head  hung  down 
In  a  stupor,  dreaming  things : 
Green  savannas,  jungles  brown, 
Battlefields  and  bellowings, 
Bulls  undone  and  lions  dead 
And  vultures  flapping  overhead. 

Dreaming  things  :  of  days  he  spent 
With  his  mother  gaunt  and  lean 
In  the  valley  warm  and  green, 
Full  of  baby  wonderment, 
Blinking  out  of  silly  eyes 
At  a  hundred  mysteries ; 

Dreaming  over  once  again 
How  he  wandered  with  a  throng 
Of  bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong, 
Wandered  on  from  plain  to  plain, 


32  THE   BULL 

Up  the  hill  and  down  the  dale, 
Always  at  his  mother's  tail ; 

How  he  lagged  behind  the  herd, 
Lagged  and  tottered,  weak  of  limb, 
And  she  turned  and  ran  to  him 
Blaring  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

x  Dreaming  maybe  of  a  day 
When  her  drained  and  drying  paps 
Turned  him  to  the  sweets  and  saps, 
Richer  fountains  by  the  way, 
And  she  left  the  bull  she  bore 
And  he  looked  to  her  no  more ; 

And  his  little  frame  grew  stout, 
And  his  little  legs  grew  strong, 
And  the  way  was  not  so  long ; 
And  his  little  horns  came  out, 
And  he  played  at  butting  trees 
And  boulder-stones  and  tortoises, 


THE   BULL  33 

Joined  a  game  of  knobby  skulls 
With  the  youngsters  of  his  year, 
All  the  other  little  bulls, 
Learning  both  to  bruise  and  bear, 
Learning  how  to  stand  a  shock 
Like  a  little  bull  of  rock. 

Dreaming  of  a  day  less  dim, 
Dreaming  of  a  time  less  far, 
When  the  faint  but  certain  star 
Of  destiny  burned  clear  for  him, 
And  a  fierce  and  wild  unrest 
Broke  the  quiet  of  his  breast, 

And  the  gristles  of  his  youth 
Hardened  in  his  comely  pow, 
And  he  came  to  fighting  growth, 
Beat  his  bull  and  won  his  cow, 
And  flew  his  tail  and  trampled  off 
Past  the  tallest,  vain  enough, 

And  curved  about  in  splendour  full 
And  curved  again  and  snuffed  the  airs 
As  who  should  say  Come  out  who 
dares ! 


34  THE   BULL 

And  all  beheld  a  bull,  a  Bull, 
And  knew  that  here  was  surely  one 
That  backed  for  no  bull,  fearing  none* 

And  the  leader  of  the  herd 
Looked  and  saw,  and  beat  the  ground, 
And  shook  the  forest  with  his  sound, 
Bellowed  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming,  this  old  bull  forlorn, 
Surely  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  he  came  to  sultan  power, 
And  they  owned  him  master-horn, 
Chiefest  bull  of  all  among 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong ; 

And  in  all  the  tramping  herd 
Not  a  bull  that  barred  his  way, 
Not  a  cow  that  said  him  nay, 
Not  a  bull  or  cow  that  erred 
In  the  furnace  of  his  look 
Dared  a  second,  worse  rebuke ; 


THE  BULL  35 


Not  in  all  the  forest  wide, 
Jungle,  thicket,  pasture,  fen, 
Not  another  dared  him  then, 
Dared  him  and  again  defied ; 
Not  a  sovereign  buck  or  boar 
Came  a  second  time  for  more ; 

Not  a  serpent  that  survived 
Once  the  terrors  of  his  hoof 
Risked  a  second  time  reproof, 
Came  a  second  time  and  lived, 
Not  a  serpent  in  its  skin 
Came  again  for  discipline ; 

x'Not  a  leopard  bright  as  flame, 
I    Flashing  fingerhooks  of  steel, 
That  a  wooden  tree  might  feel, 
Met  his  fury  once  and  came 
For  a  second  reprimand, 
Not  a  leopard  in  the  land ; 

Not  a  lion  of  them  all, 
Not  a  lion  of  the  hills, 
Hero  of  a  thousand  kills, 
Dared  a  second  fight  and  fall, 


36  THE  BULL 

Dared  that  ram  terrific  twice, 
Paid  a  second  time  the  price. 

Pity  him,  this  dupe  of  dream, 
Leader  of  the  herd  again 
Only  in  his  daft  old  brain, 
Once  again  the  bull  supreme 
And  bull  enough  to  bear  the  part 
Only  in  his  tameless  heart. 

'  Pity  him  that  he  must  wake ; 
Even  now  the  swarm  of  flies 
Blackening  his  bloodshot  eyes 
Bursts  and  blusters  round  the  lake, 
Scattered  from  the  feast  half -fed, 
By  great  shadows  overhead ; 

And  the  dreamer  turns  away 
From  his  visionary  herds 
And  his  splendid  yesterday, 
Turns  to  meet  the  loathly  birds 
Flocking  round  him  from  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 


PLAYMATES 

IT'S  sixty  years  ago,  the  people  say : 
Two  village  children,  neighbours  born 

and  bred, 
One  morning  played  beneath  a  rotten 

tree 
That  came  down  crash  and  caught 

them  as  they  fled ; 
And  one  was  killed  and  one  was  left 

unhurt 
Except  for  certain  fancies  in  his  head. 

And  though  it's  all  so  very  long  ago 
He's  never  left  the  wood   a  single 

day; 
I've  often  met  him  peeping  through 

the  leaves 
And   chuckling   to   himself,    an   old 

man  grey ; 

37 


38  PLAYMATES 

And  once  he  started  in  his  cracked 

old  voice : 
"We're  playing  I'm  a  merchant  lost 

his  way, 
She's  robbers   in   the  wood   behind 

yon  tree, 
The  minute  we  grow  up  too  big  to 

play" 


THE  HOUSE  ACROSS 
THE  WAY 

THE  leaves  looked  in  at  the  window 

Of  the  house  across  the  way, 

At  a  man  that  had  sinned  like  you 

and  me 
And  all  poor  human  clay. 

He  muttered  :   "In  a  gambol 

I  took  my  soul  astray, 

But  to-morrow  I'll  drag  it  back  from 

danger, 

In  the  morning,  come  what  may ; 
For  no  man  knows  what  season 
He  shall  go  his  ghostly  way." 
And   his   face   fell   down   upon   the 

table, 
And  where  it  fell  it  lay. 


40  THE  HOUSE 

And  the  wind  blew  under  the  carpet 
And  it  said,  or  it  seemed  to  say : 
"  Truly,  all  men  must  go  a-ghosting 
And  no  man  knows  his  day." 
And    the    leaves    stared    in    at    the 

window 
Like  the  people  at  a  play. 


THE  BEGGAR 

HE  begged  and  shuffled  on ; 
Sometimes  he  stopped  to  throw 
A  bit  and  benison 
To  sparrows  in  the  snow, 
And  clap  a  frozen  ear 
And  curse  the  bitter  cold. 
God  send  the  good  man  cheer 
And  quittal  hundredfold. 


41 


BABYLON 

IF  you  could  bring  her  glories  back ! 
You  gentle  sirs  who  sift  the  dust 
And  burrow  in  the  mould  and  must 
Of  Babylon  for  bric-a-brac ; 
Who  catalogue  and  pigeon-hole 
The  faded  splendours  of  her  soul 
And  put  her  greatness  under  glass — 
If  you  could  bring  her  past  to  pass ! 

If  you  could  bring  her  dead  to  life ! 
The  soldier  lad ;  the  market  wife ; 
Madam  buying  fowls  from  her ; 
Tip,  the  butcher's  bandy  cur ; 
Workmen  carting  bricks  and  clay ; 
Babel  passing  to  and  fro 
On  the  business  of  a  day 
Gone  three  thousand  years  ago  — 

42 


BABYLON  43 

That  you  cannot ;  then  be  done, 
Put  the  goblet  down  again, 
Let  the  broken  arch  remain, 
Leave  the  dead  men's  dust  alone  — 

Is  it  nothing  how  she  lies, 
This  old  mother  of  you  all, 
You  great  cities  proud  and  tall 
Towering  to  a  hundred  skies 
Round  a  world  she  never  knew, 
Is  it  nothing,  this,  to  you  ? 
Must  the  ghoulish  work  go  on 
Till  her  very  floors  are  gone  ? 
While  there's  still  a  brick  to  save 
Drive  these  people  from  her  grave ! 

The  Jewish  seer  when  he  cried 
Woe  to  Babel's  lust  and  pride 
Saw  the  foxes  at  her  gates ; 
Once  again  the  wild  thing  waits. 
Then  leave  her  in  her  last  decay 
A  house  of  owls,  a  foxes'  den ; 
The  desert  that  till  yesterday 
Hid  her  from  the  eyes  of  men 
In  its  proper  time  and  way 
Will  take  her  to  itself  again. 


THE  MOOR 

THE    world's    gone    forward    to    its 

latest  fair 
And  dropt  an  old  man  done  with  by 

the  way, 
To  sit  alone  among  the  bats  and 

stare 
At   miles   and   miles   and   miles   of 

moorland  bare 
Lit  only  with  last  shreds  of  dying 

day. 

Not  all  the  world,  not  all  the  world's 
gone  by : 

Old  man,  you're  like  to  meet  one 
traveller  still, 

A  journeyman  well  kenned  for  cour- 
tesy 

44 


THE   MOOR  45 

To  all  that  walk  at  odds  with  life 

and  limb ; 

If  this  be  he  now  riding  up  the  hill 
Maybe  he'll  stop  and  take  you  up 

with  him.  .  .  . 

"But     thou     art     Death  ?"      "Of 

Heavenly  Seraphim 
None  else  to  seek  thee  out  and  bid 

thee  come." 
"I  only  care  that  thou  art  come  from 

Him, 
Unbody  me  —  I'm  tired  —  and  get 

me  home." 


FEBRUARY 

A  FEW  tossed  thrushes  save 
That  carolled  less  than  cried 
Against  the  dying  rave 
And  moan  that  never  died, 
No  bird  sang  then ;  no  thorn, 
No  tree  was  green  beside 
Them  only  never  shorn  — 
The  few  by  all  the  winds 
And  chill  mutations  born 
Of  Winter's  many  minds 
Abused  and  whipt  in  vain  — 
Swarth  yew  and  ivy  kinds 
And  iron  breeds  germane. 


THE  LATE,  LAST  ROOK 

THE  old  gilt  vane  and  spire  receive 
The  last  beam  eastward  striking ; 
The  first  shy  bat  to  peep  at  eve 
Has  found  her  to  his  liking. 
The  western  heaven  is  dull  and  grey, 
The  last  red  glow  has  followed  day. 

The  late,  last  rook  is  housed  and  will 
With  cronies  lie  till  morrow ; 
If  there's  a  rook  loquacious  still 
In  dream  he  hunts  a  furrow, 
And  flaps  behind  a  spectre  team, 
Or    ghostly    scarecrows    walk    his 
dream. 


47 


THE  BIRDCATCHER 

WHEN  flighting  time  is  on  I  go 
With  clap-net  and  decoy, 
A-fowling  after  goldfinches 
And  other  birds  of  joy ; 

I  lurk  among  the  thickets  of 
The  Heart  where  they  are  bred, 
And  catch  the  twittering  beauties  as 
They  fly  into  my  Head, 


48 


THE  ROYAL  MAILS 

FOR  all  its  flowers  and  trailing  bowers, 
Its  singing  birds  and  streams, 
This  valley's  not  the  blissful  spot, 
The  paradise,  it  seems. 

I  don't  forget  a  man  I  met 
Beneath  this  very  tree,  — 
The  cooing  of  that  cushat  dove 
Brings  back  his  face  to  me,  — 
The  merest  lad,  a  sullen,  sad, 
Unhappy  soul  with  eyes  half  mad, 
Most  sorrowful  to  see. 

I  asked  him  who  he  was,  and  what ; 
'Twas  his  affair,  he  answered,  that, 
And  had  no  more  to  say ; 
'Twas  all  I'd  feared,  the  tale  I  heard, 
When  he  at  last  gave  way. 

E  49 


50       THE  ROYAL  MAILS 

I've  not  forgot  the  look  he  shot 
Me  through  and  through  with  then ; 
"What   loathly   land   is    this!"    he 

cried. 

And  cursed  it  for  a  countryside 
Where  devils  masque  as  men. 


I   thought   at   first   his   brain   was 

burst, 

So  senselessly  he  cried  and  cursed 
And  spat  with  rage  and  hate ; 
He  writhed  to  hear  the  glossy  dove 
In  song  among  the  boughs  above 
Beside  its  gentle  mate. 


His  fury  passed  away  at  last, 
And  when  his  reason  came 
He  told  me  he  was  city  bred, 
A  page  about  the  Court,  he  said, 
And  coloured  up  with  shame ; 
It  made  him  wince  to  own  a  Prince 
Of  very  famous  fame. 


THE  ROYAL  MAILS       51 

"He  looked  for  one  with  speed  and 

strength 
And  youth,   and  picked  on  me  at 

length 

And  ordered  me  to  stand 
Prepared  to  leave  at  break  of  day, 
With  letters  naught  must  long  delay, 
For  certain  cities  far  away 
Across  this  lonely  land. 

"He  told  me  all  the  roads  to  take 

And  cautioned  me  to  go 

With  ears  and  eyes  and  wits  awake, 

Alert  from  top  to  toe, 

For  spies  and  thieves  wore  out  most 

shoes 

Upon  the  roads  that  I  must  use, 
As  he  had  cause  to  know. 

"I  took  my  cloak  as  morning  broke 

And  started  down  the  hill, 

With  Castle-bells  and  Fare-ye-wells 

And  bugles  sweet  and  shrill  — 

Sir  Woodman,  though  it's  months  ago, 

I  hear  that  music  still. 


52       THE  ROYAL  MAILS 

"What  matters  now  or  ever  how 

I  made  the  journey  here ! 

I  fed  on  berries  from  the  bough, 

Abundant  everywhere, 

Or  if  it  failed,  that  luscious  meat, 

I  dug  up  roots  that  wild  hogs  eat 

And  flourished  on  the  fare ; 

At  night  I  made  a  grassy  bed 

And  went  to  sleep  without  a  dread 

And  woke  without  a  care  — 

"No  matter  how  I  managed  now, 
It  all  went  well  enough, 
Until  I  saw  this  spot,  I  vow, 
No  man  was  better  off. 

"Last  night  as  I  came  down  this  vale 
In  wind  and  rain  full  blast, 
I  turned  about  to  hear  a  shout 
Ho,  master,  whither  so  fast ! 

"A  minute  more  and  half  a  score 
Of  men  were  at  my  side, 
Plain  merchants  all,  they  said  they 
were, 


THE  ROYAL  MAILS       53 

And  camping  in  a  thicket  near, 
"Remain  with  us !'  they  cried. 

"  *  Remain  with  us,  our  board  is  spread 
With  cheer  the  best,  Ah,  stay/  they 

said, 

'Why  go  so  pro'udly  by !' 
And  there  and  then  my  legs  were  lead, 
A  weary  man  was  I ! 

"They   stared  with  wonder  that  I 

walked 
These  tangled  hills  and  dales,  and 

talked 

Of  better  roads  at  hand, 
Smooth  roads  without  a  hill  to  climb 
A  man  could  walk  in  half  the  time, 
The  finest  in  the  land, 
With  more,  —  but  most  of  it  I  lost 
Or  did  not  understand. 

'"So,  come/  they  cried,  "our  tents 

are  tight, 
Our    fires    are    burning    warm    and 

bright ! 


54       THE  ROYAL  MAILS 

How  shall  we  let  you  go  to-night 

Without  offending  heaven ! 

Come,  leave  you  shall  with  morning 

light. 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  seven !' 

"True  men  they  seemed,  for  me  I 

dreamed 

No  whit  of  their  design, 
Their  mildness  would  have  clapped 

a  hood 

On  sharper  eyes  than  mine ; 
Ay,  me  they  pressed  awhile  to  rest, 
Persuaded  me  to  be  their  guest, 
And  stole  the  letters  from  my  breast 
When  I  fell  down  with  wine ! 

"It  all  came  crowding  on  my  mind 
With  morning  when  I  woke  to  find 
How  blind  and  blind  and  utter  blind 
And  blind  again  I'd  been ; 
Both  tents  and  men   had  vanished 

then, 
Were  nowhere  to  be  seen/' 


THE   ROYAL  MAILS       55 

'Twas  word  for  word  a  tale  I'd  heard 

Not  once  or  twice  before, 

Since  first  I  made  an  axe  ring  out 

Upon  the  timber  hereabout, 

But  twenty  times  and  more. 

For  many  a  year  we've  harboured 

here 

A  nest  of  thieves  and  worse, 
Who  watch  for  these  young  Castle- 
men 

At  night  among  the  gorse, 
It's  hard  to  say  if  one  in  ten 
Gets  by  with  life  and  purse. 

I    wonder   since    'twould   serve   the 

Prince 

To  square  accounts  with  these,  — 
And  many  a  score  of  footpads  more 
All  like  as  pins  or  peas, 
Who  ply  their  trades  in  other  glades 
And  plunder  whom  they  please  — 
He  does  not  rout  the  vermin  out 
And  hang  them  to  the  trees. 


56       THE   ROYAL  MAILS 

But  this  poor  lad  —  for  me  I  knew 
Scarce  what  to  think  or  say, 
I  pitied  him,  I  pitied,  too, 
Those  cities  far  away. 

I  asked  him  would  he  stay  and  be 

A  woodman  in  these  woods  with  me, 

Perhaps  he  did  not  hear, 

Perhaps  the  dove  in  song  above 

Beside  its  mistress  dear, 

Was  Castle-bells  and  Fare-ye-wells 

And  hornets  in  his  ear ; 

An  old  grey  man  in  all  but  years, 

He  pulled  his  cloak  about  his  ears, 

And  went  I  know  not  where. 


THE  SWALLOW 

THE  morning  that  my  baby  came 
They  found  a  baby  swallow  dead, 
And  saw  a  something,  hard  to  name, 
Flit  moth-like  over  baby's  bed. 

My  joy,  my  flower,  my  baby  dear 
Sleeps  on  my  bosom  well,  but  Oh ! 
If  in  the  Autumn  of  the  year 
When    swallows    gather   round    and 
go  — 


57 


A  WOOD  SONG 

Now  one  and  all,  you  Roses, 
Wake  up,  you  lie  too  long ! 

This  very  morning  closes 
The  Nightingale  his  song ; 

Each  from  its  olive  chamber 
His  babies  every  one 

This  very  morning  clamber 
Into  the  shining  sun. 


You  Slug-a-beds  and  Simples, 
Why  will  you  so  delay ! 

Dears,  doff  your  olive  wimples, 
And  listen  while  you  may. 


58 


REASON  has  moons,  but  moons  not 
hers, 

Lie  mirror'd  on  the  sea, 
Confounding  her  astronomers, 

But,  O  !  delighting  me. 


BABYLON  —  where  I  go  dreaming 
When  I  weary  of  to-day, 
Weary  of  a  world  grown  grey. 


GOD  loves  an  idle  rainbow, 
No  less  than  labouring  seas. 


59 


THE  BRIDE 

THE  book  was  dull,  its  pictures 
As  leaden  as  its  lore, 
But  one  glad,  happy  picture 
Made  up  for  all  and  more ; 
'Twas  that  of  you,  sweet  peasant, 
Beside  your  grannie's  door  — 
I  never  stopped  so  startled 
Inside  a  book  before. 

Just  so  had  I  sat  spell-bound, 
Quite  still  with  staring  eyes, 
If  some  great  shiny  hoopoe 
Or  moth  of  song-bird  size 
Had  drifted  to  my  window 
And  trailed  its  fineries  — 
Just  so  had  I  been  startled, 
Spelled  with  the  same  surprise. 


THE   BRIDE  61 

It  pictured  you  when  springtime 
In  part  had  given  place 
But  not  surrendered  wholly 
To  summer  in  your  face ; 
When  still  your  slender  body 
Was  all  a  childish  grace, 
Though  woman's  richest  glories 
Were  building  there  apace. 

'Twas  blissful  so  to  see  you, 
Yet  not  without  a  sigh 
I  dwelt  upon  the  people 
Who  saw  you  not  as  I, 
But  in  your  living  sweetness, 
Beneath  your  native  sky ; 
Ah,  bliss  to  be  the  people 
When  you  went  tripping  by ! 

I  sat  there,  thinking,  wondering, 
About  your  life  and  home, 
The  happy  days  behind  you, 
The  happy  days  to  come, 
Your  grannie  in  her  corner, 
Upstairs  the  little  room 


62  THE   BRIDE 

Where  you  wake  up  each  morning 
To  dream  all  day  —  of  Whom  ? 

That  ring  upon  your  finger, 
Who  gave  you  that  to  wear  ? 
What  blushing  smith  or  farm  lad 
Came  stammering  at  your  ear 
A  million-time-told  story 
No  maid  but  burns  to  hear, 
And  went  about  his  labours 
Delighting  in  his  dear ! 

I  thought  of  you  sweet  lovers. 
The  things  you  say  and  do, 
The  pouts  and  tears  and  partings 
And  swearings  to  be  true, 
The  kissings  in  the  barley  — 
You  brazens,  both  of  you ! 
I  nearly  burst  out  crying 
With  thinking  of  you  two. 

It  put  me  in  a  frenzy 
Of  pleasure  nearly  pain, 
A  host  of  blurry  faces 
'Gan  shaping  in  my  brain, 


THE   BRIDE  63 

I  shut  my  eyes  to  see  them 
Come  forward  clear  and  plain, 
I  saw  them  come  full  flower, 
And  blur  and  fade  again. 

One  moment  so  I  saw  them, 

One  sovereign  moment  so, 

A  host  of  girlish  faces 

All  happy  and  aglow 

With  Life  and  Love  it  dealt  them 

Before  it  laid  them  low, 

A  hundred  years,  a  thousand, 

Ten  thousand  years  ago. 

One  moment  so  I  sa'w  them 
Come  back  with  time  full  tide, 
The  host  of  girls,  your  grannies, 
Who  lived  and  loved  and  died 
To  give  your  mouth  its  beauty, 
Your  soul  its  gentle  pride, 
Who  wrestled  with  the  ages 
To  give  the  world  a  bride. 


AFTER 

"How  fared  you  when  you  mortal 

were  ? 
What  did  you  see  on  my  peopled 

star?" 

"  Oh  well  enough,"  I  answered  her, 
"It   went  for   me   where   mortals 
are! 

"I  saw  blue  flowers  and  the  merlin's 

flight 

And  the  rime  on  the  wintry  tree, 
Blue  doves  I  saw  and  summer  light 
On    the    wings    of    the    cinnamon 
bee." 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 
64 


HTHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
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War  Flames 

BY  JOHN  CURTIS  UNDERWOOD 

A  series  of  vivid  war  pictures  relating  to  the 
present  struggle  in  Europe.  The  author  pictures 
before  the  reader  in  a  gripping  manner  the  attacks 
by  Zeppelins  at  night,  duties  of  the  Red  Cross 
nurse,  Krupp  Steel  Works  in  Germany,  attacks  by 
the  enemy,  gas  bombs,  submarine  attacks,  and 
everything  else  that  is  happening  in  this  great  war. 

Lollingdon  Downs  and  Other  Poems 

BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Limited  Edition 

A  new  book  of  poems  by  Mr.  Masefield,  con- 
taining his  most  recent  work  in  verse,  the  first  to 
be  published  since  his  "Good  Friday  and  Other 
Poems."  The  same  beauty  of  expression  and  im- 
pression which  pervaded  the  Sonnets  of  that  earlier 
volume  will  be  found  in  the  pages  of  "Lollingdon 
Downs  and  Other  Poems."  These  latest  of  Mr. 
Masefield's  poems  are  to  be  issued  in  a  limited 
edition. 

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WILFRID   WILSON   GIBSON'S  NEW  BOOK 

Livelihood  :  Dramatic  Reveries 

BY  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 
Author  of  "  Daily  Bread,"  etc. 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.25 

Here  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  gives  us  another 
book  much  in  the  manner  of  his  first  success  — 
Daily  Bread.  Under  the  title  of  Livelihood  he 
writes  of  common,  ordinary  things,  and  of  people 
whose  lives  are,  for  the  most  part,  bound  up  in  the 
making  of  a  living.  The  collection  includes  The 
Shaft,  dealing  with  a  miner  who  lost  his  way  in 
deep,  dark,  underground  passages,  and  almost 
perished;  The  Orchestra,  of  a  fiddler  in  a  theatre 
orchestra;  The  Blast  Furnace,  a  gripping  bit  of 
tragedy ;  Makeshifts,  with  its  philosophy  of  humble 
life,  and  The  Lamp,  a  powerful  narrative  of  the  sea 
and  of  a  wife  who  waited  vainly  for  her  husband's 
return. 

"Mr.  Gibson  is  a  poet  of  the  people,  a  lyricist 
who  penetrates  the  heart  of  humanity. "  —  Review 
of  Reviews. 

"Mr.  Gibson  is  a  genuine  singer  of  his  own  day 
and  turns  into  appealing  harmony  the  world's 
harshly  jarring  notes  of  poverty  and  pain."  —  The 
Outlook. 

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EDWIN   ARLINGTON  ROBINSON'S   NEW  BOOK 

Merlin 

BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

"Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  during  the  last  few 
years  has  come  to  be  considered  by  many  the  lead- 
ing American  poet  of  the  generation  now  reaching 
its  artistic  maturity.  It  is  safe  to  predict  that  his 
popularity  will  increase  rather  than  diminish."  It 
was  The  New  York  Times  that  made  this  statement 
shortly  after  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Robinson's  last 
book  of  verse,  The  Man  Against  the  Sky.  This,  and 
the  added  fact  that  The  Times  in  this  opinion  but 
voices  the  verdict  of  critics  everywhere,  lends  im- 
portance to  the  publication  of  Mr.  Robinson's  new 
book,  Merlin,  a  narrative  poem,  which  will  be 
found  quite  as  valuable  a  contribution  to  Ameri- 
can letters  as  any  of  its  author's  previous  works. 
Mr.  Robinson's  theme  is  the  Arthurian  legend,  to 
which  he  has  brought  the  originality  which  his 
readers  have  come  to  expect  of  him  and  which  he 
has  adorned  with  all  the  arts  of  the  great  poet 
that  he  truly  is. 


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The  Road  to  Castaly 


BY  ALICE  BROWN 
Author  of  "  Children  of  Earth,"  "The  Prisoner,"  etc. 


$1-50 

Readers  of  Children  of  Earth,  and  of  many  other 
of  Miss  Brown's  books  for  that  matter,  must  have 
seen  many  an  evidence  about  them  of  the  really 
natural  poet.  Some  years  ago,  furthermore,  she 
published  a  little  collection  of  verse  which  was 
warmly  received  by  the  critics,  and  which  served 
to  intensify  the  desire  for  more.  This  volume, 
then,  will  be  welcome  to  Miss  Brown's  admirers, 
and  to  literature  lovers  generally.  It  contains 
the  earlier  poems  referred  to,  which  were,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  also  issued  under  the  title  of  The 
Road  to  Castaly,  and  much  new  material  as  well  — 
the  poet's  latest  and  most  mature  work. 


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Yzdra 

BY  LOUIS  V.  LEDOUX 

New  Edition 

Mr.  Ledoux's  The  Story  ofEleusis,  published  last  year, 
has  been  commended  by  critics  of  poetry,  and  lovers 
of  the  classic  drama.  Yzdra,  which  now  follows  it, 
will  be  found  no  less  worthy.  It  deals  with  a  Princess 
who  is  supposed  to  have  acquired  the  quality  of  poison- 
ing. She  is  sent  by  King  Poros,  her  father,  to  poison 
Alexander  the  Great.  She  falls  in  love  with  Alexander 
and  he  with  her,  and  rather  than  fulfill  her  mission  she 
kills  herself.  In  Mr.  Ledoux's  hands  this  becomes  a 
theme  of  power  and  to  it  he  brings  his  great  skill  as 
poet  and  dramatist. 

The  New  Poetry  :  An  Anthology 

EDITED  BY  HARRIET  MONROE  AND 
ALICE  CORBIN  HENDERSON 

Editors  of  "  Poetry  " 

$1-75 

Probably  few  people  are  following  as  closely  the 
trend  of  modern  poetry  as  are  the  editors  of  the  Poetry 
Magazine  of  Chicago.  They  are  eminently  fitted,  there- 
fore, to  prepare  such  a  volume  as  this,  which  is  intended 
to  represent  the  work  that  is  being  done  by  the  leading 
poets  of  the  day.  Here,  between  the  covers  of  one 
book,  are  brought  together  poems  by  a  great  many 
different  writers,  all  of  whom  may  properly  be  included 
in  the  group  of  "new  poets."  The  collection  includes 
examples  of  the  work  of  Masters,  Frost,  Lowell,  Aiken, 
De  la  Mare,  Lindsay,  Pound,  Robinson,  MacKaye  and 
Masefield,  not  to  mention  many  others  equally  in- 
teresting. 

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14  DAY  USE 

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LOAN  DEPT. 





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